


Sentinel

by LaughableLament



Series: Wincestmas [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sort of I guess?), 12 Days of Wincestmas, Bottom Dean, Christmas Eve, Het, Masturbation, Multi, Pining, Sex, Soulless Sam Winchester, Stalker Sam, Voyeurism, non-con elements, past wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 02:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9299411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Sam’s read “The Monkey’s Paw;” he gets thewhat, if not thewhy.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thep0rnfairy (Jesibella)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jesibella/gifts).



Dean hauls armloads of bright-wrapped boxes in from his truck. Two doors down and one across, Sam tweaks the focus on mounted binoculars.

Gaudy lights all down the street stalled his prowling for weeks, but now. Dunning family’s off to Florida. Sam has a vantage point.

Lisa kneels by the Christmas tree. Painted-on pants sag, back bares as she bends and crawls, stacks presents. Dean slips in and out of view, brings her packages and sips of wine. Dean smiles, throws back his head now and then but he buzzes underneath. Tense neck, knotted shoulders, Sam sees how he moves.

Sam’s read “The Monkey’s Paw _;”_ he gets the _what_ , if not the _why_. And, he remembers extorting this promise from Dean,  _Go find Lisa_. No call to cross the street, knock on their door, take his brother back.

Dean's knife glints and oranges tumble. Limp net hangs from his fingers. Lisa’s hand goes to her forehead, shoulders shake as he picks up, juggles. Lisa pulls Ben’s stocking down and holds out the opening. Dean pitches underhand, behind-the-back and it sails long. Four tries before she bags one. Stifled laughter.

Sam doesn’t need Dean complicating his hunts. Plus, Dean’s—well, if not happy he’s safe. Especially with Sam watching over him, killing every thing in a hundred miles. _Guardian angel_. Sam’s mouth twists.

Dean stands by the stairs and Lisa picks up wine and whiskey glasses. Dean goes still, draws a breath so deep it rocks him backward. Heel of a hand across his cheek and he says something, over his shoulder and cuts the lights.

Sam adjusts his tripod.

Just in time he catches Dean, crossing the master bedroom and ditching his shirt. Muscles roll in his broad back as he shrugs, shakes out his arms. Into the bathroom and out again, undershirt and dark pants. Sam sees freckles in his mind, trailing down Dean’s neck.

Dean settles, foot of the bed. Flask tips to his mouth and he winces. Drinks again. Smiles and slips the flask under the mattress. Lisa steps between his legs. Sam tracks Dean’s hands roaming under her shimmery robe. She bends a knee, coquettish, something stashed behind her back.

Santa hat.

Dean’s head tilts, _Come on_ but he lets her put it on him. Lisa kneels up into his lap. Dean pets her thighs, two-hands her ass while they kiss. Champagne silk silhouettes his knees, clings to her curves. Hides where he dives, sucks her tits.

Soon Dean stands, flips them and drags Lisa’s panties down. Chucks the hat, disappears between her thighs. Sam zooms on her face. Cheeks blow out; that’s Dean nosing between her folds. Lip in her teeth and that’s probably a finger, feathering behind his tongue. Obvious when he gets in her, shoulders press and face screws up in not-quite-pain. Dean goes hard like this. Likes his holes fucked out and wet for his dick.

Sam’s cock aches in his jeans and he shifts, savors some not-quite-pain of his own. Dean takes his time, special occasions. Sam paces himself.

Lisa reels. Legs clamp around Dean’s head and he’s on for the ride now. Shoulder works where he fingers her. Head bobs, chasing that clit. Lisa pulls a pillow across her face, curls in a crunch. Then she’s kicking. Dean grabs her ankles and kisses inside both knees. Real smile. Filthy.

Sam undoes his zipper, slow. Dean strips his shirt and Lisa’s robe. Sam shoves jeans and shorts past his ass. Dean’s cock jumps free and slaps his belly. Sam thumbs through his slit, already wet and he spits in his hand. Dean turns Lisa over, pushes in her from behind.

Dean could be looking right at Sam, hands hooked under his woman and teeth bare. Lisa’s hair falls in her face and her body rocks when Dean slams in her. Squirms when he stills, grips with her cunt. Dean’s head falls back and he hits it harder.

Sam jacks like he’s in Dean, fucking him into her, getting her off like Dean’s his strap-on. Shooting up Dean’s ass. Sam hits the edge, torments himself…

Dean puts Lisa on her back and Sam exhales. All he sees are legs and his brother’s chest. Dean must sweat; Sam can’t see. Mouth moves— _tight_ and _wet_ and _hot_ and _fuck_ —go-to stuff. Belly rolls as he pounds her. Manicured hands pluck nipples and his neck strains. Rhythm falls off.

Sam yells when he comes, because he can, because Dean can’t. Yells for no reason except, _He’s mine._ Sam looks back through his binoculars, smears them with spunk. Dean’s grinding hips now, squeezing aftershocks out of her. Dopey grin but he eyes the window, micro-glances. Sam falls back in his chair.

Sky purples. Sam cleans his mess with wet naps he’ll take with him. Gear packed, he checks the cell phone pictures he snapped when he got here. Not a trace.

One last look. Lights out and all he discerns are two lumps. Each rides an edge of the bed.

Sam doesn’t smile.


End file.
